


LetThemEatCake

by phipiohsum475



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Masturbation, Meta, fan fiction, prompts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-21
Updated: 2014-09-21
Packaged: 2018-02-18 05:24:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2336750
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phipiohsum475/pseuds/phipiohsum475
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Inspired by a prompt from Lillianrhys: John finds fanfiction on the internet. Fanfiction that is actually smut written by a very dirty Mycroft.</p>
            </blockquote>





	LetThemEatCake

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [It’d Take Mycroft Holmes](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2068065) by [phipiohsum475](https://archiveofourown.org/users/phipiohsum475/pseuds/phipiohsum475). 



> I didn't think much about the prompt at the time, but then I was driving and started thinking about a Johncroft fic I'd already written, and how if Mycroft were going to write a fic, it might look a lot like that. 
> 
> So the fic John is reading here is my own: http://archiveofourown.org/works/2068065.
> 
> Not betaed nor britpicked. Feel free to (kindly!) point out my errors!

From: GLestrade@gmail.com

To: johnhwatsonmd@gmail.com

So I told you I’d warn you the next time something else started making the rounds – it’s a story this time. I’ve read it, and if you can make it past the porn, it’s pretty funny. So, equal parts horrifying and humorous.

The ladies seem to really like it; a few of blokes are pretty keen as well.

Just a heads up.

GL

 

John clicked on the link Lestrade had sent him. It opened to a page whose formatting was quickly becoming familiar to him. Every since Sherlock, and by extension, John became well known, stories and artwork and photo manipulations seemed to be a weekly occurrence. After an especially embarrassing day, where he’d worn the same cardigan/button down combination that was in that week’s pornographic sketch, he’d asked Lestrade to make sure he didn’t make any more humiliating mistakes.

It had come to this; receiving these items deliberately, scanning them for details he could then consciously avoid until the fervor died down. (Although, he was never buying red pants, ever. In fact, he was sure that he’d have to avoid buying new pants in person ever again; he’d get them all shipped straight to the flat.)

As for the stories, he learned to skim over the explicit parts, and eventually began to appreciate some of the stories on their merit. There were funny ones, sweet ones, and occasionally even ones where there was no sex at all, just a case or an event between two best friends. John liked these the best.

The first thing that caught John’s eye was that the “relationship” tag was not Johnlock, or any of its iterations, but instead, Johncroft. John choked on his tea, and it sputtered down his stripped jumper. He’d never seen anything other than stories about him and Sherlock. He’d never seen Mycroft make an appearance in these stories; the public didn’t know who he was.

It was further tagged, “Sherlock gets it wrong” and written by LetThemEatCake. He continued to the first paragraph with trepidation.

>   _Mycroft’s cock was buried inside him. He’d come all over the leather seats of Mycroft’s car. He’d been thoroughly fucked by his best friend’s older brother. Sherlock was going to be livid._

This time, John dropped the mug entirely. It spilled tea down his trousers, bounced of his leg, and rolled down to the floor. _Christ! If that’s just the first paragraph!_ John thought, jumping up to fetch a flannel to dry off the chair and change his trousers. As he bent down to remove his slacks, his brain called up the image of Mycroft behind him and warm tingle jolted through him. He shook his head to clear his mind; _What was wrong with him?_

When he came back, he tried to skim past the more explicit parts, but certain phrases or paragraphs jumped out at him.

>   _He forced himself to stay still; oversensitivity be damned, he hadn’t been rimmed since secondary school._

John furrowed his brow. That part was actually spot on.

>   _If nothing else, he wanted Mycroft to understand the allure he held, how his usual self confidence, control, and intelligence projected this elegant, stunning magnificence._

John reflexively thought of Mycroft and realized this wasn’t an entirely inaccurate statement. Mycroft did have a certain regality about him. It wasn’t _un_ appealing.

John read further and found himself smiling at some of the more ridiculous tricks faux Mycroft played on Sherlock. He found it entirely plausible that Mycroft could use Sherlock’s own powers of observation against him, and plant clues for Sherlock to misinterpret. He wished Mycroft was a little more playful in real life, they could have some fun. _With Sherlock. Tricking him. No other types of fun_ , John frantically corrected himself.

As he scrolled through the remainder of the story, he realized there were almost no details that could pertain to him; nothing he could do that would unintentionally draw parallels to this story. Well, unless he took up some absolutely ridiculous hobbies.

In fact, most details were about Mycroft himself. Surprisingly accurate details, in fact. John scrolled up a bit from the end.

>   _The pink accent running through the black and white checked pattern of his suit highlighted the flush of arousal on Mycroft’s face, and John stepped back to admire the look once last time before stripping the waistcoat off him. John loosened the navy polka dot tie, untucked the dress shirt, and took it off, leaving the tie hanging._

That. Well. That was an _actual suit Mycroft owne_ d. John remembered it clearly; the pattern was unusual, and rather flattering. How did this author know which suits Mycroft owned? He scrolled back up. In fact, each scene in which Mycroft’s appearance was described, he was wearing a suit that John knew Mycroft _genuinely owned_.

He pulled out his phone. <Funny story. How’d you find it?> he texted Lestrade. Maybe he’d know more about its origin. When a response didn’t show up within a few minutes, John closed the laptop and decided to put it out of his head. It was late, and he grabbed what he needed for a shower and prepared for bed.

-o-

John woke with a start, hand on his cock, and only a minute from orgasm. He was too close to do anything other than dwell on the visions of his dream, and dipped back into the fantastical images of the first time he’d met Mycroft while stroking himself enthusiastically. This time, when Mycroft grabbed his hand, he pulled John close to his body, dipped his head, and started with a soft, chaste kiss that deepened fervently at the sound of John’s moan. Mycroft dropped John’s hand to snake his own down the front of John’s trousers, and like dreams so often do, they were at the Diogenes in an instant. John reached for Mycroft’s tie and pulled him down, and using his foot to softly kick Mycroft’s own legs from under him. Mycroft kneeled, gasping before him, and John yanked the tie to force Mycroft’s face to rub against his hardened length. John used his other hand to unzip and remove himself from the cloth trappings, and guided his cock in Mycroft’s open mouth. Envisioning the ginger on his knees, in a three piece suit, controlled by his own tie, gagging around John’s thick cock was all John needed to come, his ejaculate spurting over his wrist and onto his belly.

John groaned and rubbed his eyes. That was not how one thought of one’s flat mate’s brother. John grabbed a flannel from his stack in the nightstand and cleaned himself up. He glanced at the clock and realized he needed to be up in twenty minutes anyway, so he rolled off the bed and threw on his dressing gown.

He spent the day at the clinic, ignoring the occasional pings indicating texts from a bored flat mate. He less successfully ignored his thoughts of Mycroft. The ginger patient who wasn’t near as posh, the man in a three piece suit, but an ugly tie, the lady with the expensive brolly; all served as reminders of his inappropriate thoughts.

By the time John arrived home, he was half hard.

He tried to distract himself by checking his phone, and amid useless texts from Sherlock, there was one from Lestrade. <What story?>

<The one you emailed me.>

<Not me. Haven’t sent you anything in a while.>

John stared at his phone. If Lestrade hadn’t sent it, who sent it from his account? Why were they so keen on John reading it? Who knew Mycroft well enough to know his suits and John well enough to the know the email address that wasn’t on his blog?

John ran through a list of improbable names. _Sherlock. Lestrade. Mrs Husdon. Mycroft. Moriarty._ John shuddered at the thought. _Did Molly know Mycroft?_ That might be the most likely of the list. He debated rereading the story for clues, but decided it was a topic best dropped.

Or, more accurately, his consciousness wanted it dropped, but his subconscious had other ideas. For three mornings in a row, he awoke teetering on the edge of orgasm, each time emerging from a dream starring the very man he was trying to avoid. Mycroft, in John’s exam room. Mycroft, bent over his own desk. His lips, his hands, his tongue, his cock. Thrusting, licking, lusting, tasting, coming.

On the third morning, John acquiesced. He brought his laptop to his room, sat at his desk, and opened the email (not) from Lestrade. Then clicked the link. And read very thoroughly. He read the graphic scenes with interest, the events easily playing out in his own head. He scoffed, though. Faux John might crave the power dynamic, but he’d show Mycroft who was really in charge. _Shit. He would, too, given the chance_. _Guess it’s no use avoiding that truth any longer._ He palmed himself slightly to ease his hardness, but realized by the end he’d pulled himself out and was pumping a steady rhythm. When he was finished with the story, he closed his eyes and re-imagined the scenes, only allowing for a slightly different dynamic. One where he controlled the flow and ebb of the scene, and Mycroft surrendered under his onslaught. He came with a burst, the white thickness dripping down his fist and onto the floor.

He leaned back, wetness drying on his hand and on the hardwood, cock softening outside his pants, and groaned. _Fuck_.

He cleaned up and made himself a cuppa. Now that he was willing to acknowledge that he would rather enjoy being buggered by Mycroft, he wasn’t sure what, if anything, to do with the information. He didn’t have long to dwell on his own thoughts; footsteps on the stairs broke him from his reverie.

Footsteps, with an additional tap. _Oh buggering hell, not him. Not now_.

John steeled himself, trying to appear as blank as possible. He was sure Mycroft would be able to read his reprehensible thoughts in the way he held his teacup, though he figured even Lestrade could deduce it from the thickness of the tension in the room. He stayed in his chair, with his back to the door, and heard Mycroft pause at the threshold.

“He’s not here.” John offered, not looking.

“I’m well aware.” Mycroft spoke, and the cool, controlled voice sent a soft pleasure to John’s groin. John closed his eyes, and took a silent, deep breath.

“What do you need, then?”

“Tell me, Dr Watson, are you familiar with Jeremy Carver?” Mycroft asked, as he walked around to address John face to face.

The title brought a line from the story to mind.

>   _And I would lean over you, wrap my arm around your shoulders, thrusting deeper still, and whisper in your ear, ‘Come, Dr Watson.’_

John bit back a moan, and instead, let the air huff out his nostrils.

“Uh… Carver, Jeremy Carver” John searched his memory for the familiar name. “Oh! That arse running for Parliament who believes the solution to the unemployment rate is for people to stop being lazy and apply for work.”

“Yes, he supports the old ‘let them eat cake’ philosophy.”

John’s head snapped up, “What did you say?”

Mycroft raised one eyebrow and smirked, “You heard me.”

John suddenly noticed that Mycroft was wearing the suit, the white and black checkered suit with the soft pink stripes. The suit from the last scene of the story. And the navy tie that accompanied it. John stood slowly and tilted his head to look Mycroft in the eyes, “Mycroft, why are you really here?”

“’I suppose, Dr Watson, that if you can handle my brother’s eccentricities, then you are well equipped to handle my own.’” Mycroft quoted the story directly.

John stepped closer, and accused, “It was you.”

Mycroft hummed agreeably.

“Why?”

“One does like to confirm one’s attentions will be well received.”

John reached up and grabbed the tie. He pulled down slightly, and brought Mycroft’s lips to his own. Heat raced through John’s body, and he felt instantly frantic; he translated days of frustration into a deep, punishing kiss. He bit and nipped and felt Mycroft yield to his force, as John slipped his hand around Mycroft’s neck and tugged on the short hairs at the nape. He broke away, and leaned up to whisper hotly in Mycroft’s ear.

“Let’s get one thing straight, Mycroft. I read that story. I read it well. I don’t have to fuck you, but I will be damned if I’m not in control. Do you understand?”

Mycroft pulled back to search his eyes, and accepted breathlessly, “Yes, Dr Watson.”

“Captain,” John ordered, biting softly up Mycroft’s jaw line.

“Yes, Captain.”

“There’s a good boy,” John tugged hard on Mycroft’s hair until he heard the man gasp, “I want you on my bed, naked. I’ll be up in three minutes.”

John smiled as Mycroft turned on his heels and proceeded up the stairs. He was going to teach the British Government a thing or two about control.

**Author's Note:**

> You can find more me on [Tumblr](http://phipiohsum475.tumblr.com/).  
> You can find more Johncroft at [MycroftandJohn.tumblr.com](http://mycroftandjohn.tumblr.com/).


End file.
